


The echoes of harsh words are remembered in the darkest moments

by jujubiest



Series: SPN One-Shots [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Dean Talks About Feelings, Destiel if you squint - Freeform, Gen, Humanity, Season/Series 10, Stolen Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3787201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is not a crier. Dean is not a sharer. Both of them are trying, though, to do things they just aren't built for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The echoes of harsh words are remembered in the darkest moments

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically the result of me being a petulant asshole on tumblr.

Castiel is not a crier, for many reasons. When he’s “powered up,” as the brothers would say, he lacks the impetus. When his latest stolen grace has waned enough to allow him to feel that prickle behind his eyes, that tight aching band of human pain around his chest that begs for the release of human tears–well, by the time he reaches that point, he’s too exhausted to shed any.

Even if he could, he’s not sure he’d allow himself the luxury. Tears are a release and a relief, and he deserves neither.

But sometimes, on “powered down” days, when it’s dark in the bunker and he’s the only waking creature within its walls, he’s so desolate with loneliness, so bleak with hopelessness, and so full of the guilt of his own failures that he wishes desperately that he  _could_  cry. When the silence echoes with his own voice–or Anna’s, or Uriel’s, or Balthazar’s, even Hannah’s–reminding him that he’s not really an angel anymore, and that he’ll never really be a human either, never find a permanent place among them no matter how much he might love their tenacity, the stubborn willful independence of one human in particular.

That he’s something damned and in between that turns everything he tries to fix to ash. In those moments he wants a release so desperately that his body convinces itself it can cry after all. Well, almost.

Not one tear is shed. No sound escapes him. But he curls in on himself, wrapped tight around that central ache, and everything on and in him hurts from the strain of feeling human anguish without the respite of a human outlet.

Dean finds him like that one night, at the big table in the bunker’s library. He’s not sleeping so well lately, it was probably inevitable, but Castiel curses himself, wishing he’d had the sense–or the self-governance–to go somewhere other than the bunker to rehash his many regrets.

“Hey Cas,” Dean says quietly, slipping into a chair across from his. He leans both arms on the table, relaxed in posture although the eyes that stare at Castiel burn fever-bright with too much wakefulness for the hour. His terse response must be forced out around what feels like a stone lodged somewhere between his throat and his chest.

“Dean.” It’s the only greeting he can manage, and the sound of it has Dean’s eyebrows drawing together, a rare look of concern that Castiel simultaneously treasures and rejects. This is not Dean’s problem. He has plenty to worry about without adding Castiel’s mess to the list. But–

“Okay,” he says, still quiet but firm. “Talk to me.”

It’s an invitation even rarer than the worry in his eyes: an open door Castiel would love to walk through. He offers Dean a tired smile.

“Someone once told me that when you–make a mistake, you should clean up the mess. That you don’t get to…escape, or wallow. Nobody cares if you’re broken.”

Dean’s eyes slide away from his. His jaw clenches, like he’s biting back whatever he really wants to say. The half-smile he offers Castiel a moment later looks forced, almost chagrined.

“Yeah, well…guy sounds like a dick. I wouldn’t listen to anything he had to say, if I were you.” He stands up, stiffly and with hesitation, as though his mind isn’t made up to leave but his body is still on the autopilot that’s programmed to remove him from uncomfortable situations as soon as possible. Castiel ‘s gaze follows him up, not pleading or accepting or analyzing for once, just looking. Just…taking him in.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, then makes up his mind to leave after all. He walks around the table and past Castiel, but before he’s quite out of reach, he stops. His hand against Castiel’s shoulder is a surprise, a light touch, there and gone, an almost brotherly pat of support and acknowledgement.

“I…do. Uh, care, I mean. If you ever need…yeah, just.” Another pat, and then gone.

Leaving Castiel in the dark with that nonsensical sentence echoing in his mind.


End file.
